Cold Flesh
by Lennelle
Summary: Sam can't get warm.
And another Sam Birthday comment fic meme from ohsam. This is my first time taking part and I'm really enjoying it, clearly. The prompt was: _Sam can't get warm._

This one is pretty sad, set after the hell wall came down.

* * *

It's Cas' fault, Dean says. Sam would disagree but he can't speak through chattering teeth. Cas didn't do this, Cas isn't Lucifer. Still, Sam thinks it's best for Dean to rage about it, if his anger is directed at Cas, a dead angel that he can't even pummel, then at least he isn't taking it out on something else. Like the car.

Dean does most of the talking these days. For Sam, either his tongue feels too frozen or his words just don't come out making sense. He can see the hurt on Dean's face when Sam tries to speak, so Sam doesn't speak, not any more if he can help it.

Bobby set the fireplace up in Rufus' old cabin, now it's blazing hot, lighting up the room with flickering orange. Sam's sitting just far away enough to to get burned, but he would shove his trembling hands into the fire if he could, but that would upset Dean, he thinks.

Dean hadn't liked it when Sam had tried to cut some of the Hell out of himself, and no matter how hard Sam had tried to explain, Dean didn't understand. Dean had said, "Jesus, Sammy," and shoved Sam off to Bobby like he's some little kid before disappearing for two hours. He was bleary-eyed and unsteady on his feet when he came back. Sam was tucked up on a cot by the still-warm fireplace, shivering under four blankets. Bobby had shouted at Dean under his breath and their conversation had gone like this:

"You can't be leaving without saying where, Dean. Or have you forgotten that there's an army of flesh-eating shape-shifters rampaging out there?"

"I didn't see any Leviathan, Bobby. As you can see, I'm still in one piece."

"Barely."

"I'm fine."

"Sure you are. You know who else isn't fine? That brother of yours, you can't leave him alone, you know that."

"He was with you, Bobby."

"Yes, but he needs you."

"And sometimes I need a break."

Sam had tuned himself at that point. He didn't really want to hear any more, he had shut his eyes and dreamed of icy fingers crawling under his ribs.

Now, Sam sits by the fireplace, like he usually does, and runs the conversation over in his head. He tries, at least, his head isn't what it used to be and things tend to get mixed up and turned around while they pass through. He glances down at his gloved hands, they're still shaking, he doesn't think they'll ever stop. The tips of his fingers are almost constantly blue and numb. Dean won't take him to a doctor, for one thing, he doesn't trust doctors not to be monsters, for another, any normal doctor would take one look at Sam and print him out a one-way ticket to the psych ward.

Besides, there's nothing they could do. There's no cure for Hell.

Sam shudders when Lucifer leans over and licks up the side of is face, he jolts away, wishes he could push him back, but Satan never liked the word 'no'.

"You okay, Sammy?" he hears Dean ask over his shoulder. Sam doesn't turn around, he's sure Dean's face will have melted off or his chest will be slashed open, the walls will be stained red, he keeps his eyes down and says that he's fine.

"Poor baby," his mother coos from his right, she brushes an icy hand over the cheek that's still covered in Lucifer's saliva, "Are you seeing things?"

"Just you, right now," Sam tells her softly, quiet enough that Dean won't hear.

"I'm here, baby, don't worry," she says softly. "I'm here."

"No, you're not," Sam replies. He dares to look up. She's smiling at him with black, cracked lips. Her hair has burned off, one of her eyes is missing, that side of her face has melted. She's nothing but the charred remains of a memory he doesn't have.

"Are you cold, baby?" she asks, ignoring him, "Your hands are shaking. I know how you can get warm."

"You're not real, you're not real," Sam reminds himself. His mother places a seared hand over his and squeezes. She feels so real, she looks real, he can even smell cooking flesh, but maybe that's just a memory from the cage.

"I'm not cold any more," she tells him, "Do you know how I got warm?"

Sam finds himself shaking his head even though he thinks he knows.

"Fire is pure, Sammy," she says, "It'll wash everything away. It won't hurt and you'll be warm. Always."

Sam glances at the fireplace, there's a fire guard locked in place and only Bobby has the key. Sam wonders where he might find it.

* * *

Dean tries to concentrate on reading, it's a huge, delicate old book, one of the few that survived the fire. He's not even halfway through yet and he's been at it for four days. No information on the Leviathan. Nothing.

Cas should be here, he should be dealing with his own mess. Dean is always the one left to clean up after everyone else. He's got an impending apocalypse and a psychotic little brother on his hands, and all of it is Cas' fault. He wishes he could bring the damn angel back to fix everything, then Dean would run him through with his own blade once he was done. God, Dean misses that asshole.

He glances up now and then to check on Sam, the kid seems to keep vigil over the fire. Any normal person would be sweltering that close, but Sam is shivering like he's lost in the middle of a blizzard. Sam's talking to someone, Dean can see his lips moving from the kitchen table. He sighs, gently closes the book and gets to his feet. Sam doesn't notice him until he puts a hand on his shoulder and he stares up at Dean like he's just caught him doing something sinful.

"You good, Sammy?" Dean asks.

"Fine," Sam says, he glances down at his hand, brushing his other over the top of it.

"I saw you talking, Sam," Dean says, "Who were you talking to?"

"No one," Sam tells him, "None of it's real."

"Well," Dean sighs, "Who did you think you were talking to?"

"No one," Sam insists, "There's no one here."

Dean doesn't believe him. Sam glances around the room, frowning.

"Where's Bobby?" he asks, his voice is shaking, either from cold or fear, probably both.

Dean purses his lips, takes a deep breath. "He went on a supply run half an hour ago, remember?" he reminds him. Sam has been told this five times since Bobby left, and three times before he left, he even closed the door behind Bobby. Sam's memory isn't so great these days.

"Oh," Sam says, he's clearly frustrated with himself, but only for a moment because he's distracted again by whatever isn't sitting at his right. Dean would bet the Devil is mouthing off about him right now. Sam shudders again and Dean grabs the quilt off the back of the couch and drapes it over Sam's shoulders. He brushes his fingers over Sam's skin. It's warm, as it should be from sitting so close to the fire, his skin is flushed pink and Dean would bet Sam's fingers are soaked with sweat inside those gloves. He makes sure that Sam gets some water in him, the kid's bound to be dehydrating.

"I'm going to the bathroom, 'kay?" he makes sure he has Sam's attention. No doubt Sam will think Dean had vanished along with Bobby five minutes from now, Dean will have to make it quick.

He leaves the bathroom door unlocked and takes care of business in under a minute. He could make a record out of it.

Sam's not sitting by the fire when he comes back out, he's not anywhere inside the cabin. Dean feels his heart pick up speed and he's fairly certain he's at risk of a heart attack. He pulls his gun out from the back of his jeans and hurries outside.

Thank God, Sam's right next to the Impala. The trunk is open, Dean checks his pocket to find the keys missing, and Sam is dousing himself with holy oil. Oh God.

"Woah, Sammy!" Dean yells, hurrying down the stairs. Sam jolts and stares at him wide-eyed, he doesn't release his grip on the jar. Dean slowly, carefully places his gun back in his belt. "Wanna tell me what's going on here?"

Sam blinks at him, looks to his side for assistance from no one, then he turns to Dean and tries to smile. "It's okay, Dean. I just need to get warm."

Dean's lighter is in Sam's other hand; it had been in Dean's pocket along with the car keys. He's gonna have to carry things around in a Sammy-proof safe from now on. The problem is that Dean taught that kid everything he knows and he could probably break into anywhere and anything.

"Fire is pure," Sam says, he sounds like he's reciting it, "She says it'll be fine. I'll be warm and clean. Always."

Dean clenches his fists, trying to think, his little brother has strapped himself to a bomb with every intention of triggering it. "Who's she, Sam?"

"Mom," Sam tells him, Dean had guessed so, "I know she's not real but, but she is, you know? She's in my head but she's a memory, one I lost, so she's real in a way, right?"

Sam looks so desperate, his eyes are pleading, he just wants Dean to understand. Well, tough luck on that one.

"The only things here that are real are me and you and the fact that you are about to set yourself on fire," Dean says clearly, "Do you hear me?"

"It's okay, Dean," Sam repeats, but he's crying. He frowns, glancing between Dean and the nothingness beside him. Dean is getting through to him. Before Sam can do or say anything else, Dean lunges forward and pulls Sam into his arms.

"See, now if you use that lighter then we're both going up," Dean says. Sam drops his head onto Dean's shoulder and cries.

"Why are you doing this? Why?" he asks.

"Because I'm not staying in this crap-fest of a world without you, okay?" Dean tells him, he clutches at Sam, runs his fingers through his oil-soaked hair. "Okay?"

"Okay," Sam sobs and Dean hears the jar and the lighter thud against the ground, then Sam's gloved hands clutch at his back. They stay like that until Sam doesn't seem able to hold himself up any loner and Dean lowers him to the ground and holds him tight. At some point, Bobby's car rolls around the corner and he hops out, staring at the two of them.

"What's going on?" he asks worriedly.

"We're good," Dean says, "We need to clean Sammy up."

Bobby helps him manoeuvre Sam inside and they settle him into a warm bath. Sam's still shuddering, mumbling under his breath, his eyes are drooping and he seems half-asleep as Dean scrubs him clean.

"What happened?" Bobby asks. It's clear from his voice that he already has an idea, the evidence was obvious when he'd arrived. Sam soaked in holy oil, a lighter on the ground, Dean holding him in his arms.

"We need to lock everything down, Bobby," Dean says, his voice catches in his throat, "We need to fix him."

He pulls Sam's soaked head to rest on his chest and holds on tight.

* * *

Which is more depressing, this or These Old Shoes?


End file.
